Dark Alignment Page 11

  Shane thought about how to answer. “I’ve been tasked with keeping him safe. No one told me to discuss the mission—”

  “No, no. Of course not. You’re not to do that. Not yet, anyway. We’ve got a ways to go before we get there, anyway, and he’ll get whatever briefings he needs when we get to that bridge. For now, I just want him kept safe, and well. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so sir.”

  “That man may be our only hope.”

  “If that’s the case, I’ll make sure he stays that way sir.”

  “Good. Now, brief me on the larger mission.

  “We have a number of options, but there’s only one that seems to address all concerns.”

  “Don’t tell me. Something to do with Space Force One?”

  Shane Douglas’ eyes widened. “You know about that?”

  “Which part? The part about my exodus ship? Or the fact that we’re re-purposing it to save the planet?”

  Shane wanted to reply, but he was having a hard time getting his jaw to operate properly. The president laughed. “Relax, colonel. You think you’re the only advisor I’ve got? I’ve been talking to the same military minds as you, and yes, they’ve brought me up to speed. So I gather what we have to decide here, you and I, is whether or not to go through with it.”

  Shane found his voice. “Yes, sir. We’d better do that.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “I think we have to do it, sir. I don’t see any other way. Once we get out there, though—”

  “Yes,” Webster interrupted. “Another decision will have to be made. You must have sensed the reluctance of our top brass to give up on this thing as a M.A.D. device.”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. Yes. They’re fairly adamant.”

  The president nodded. “With me as well. And they make good arguments. But not good enough. I’ve decided we need to do away with it for good. Kill it dead, so nobody can get to it.”

  “Problem is, if we don’t harness it, our enemies will.”

  “So say the generals,” the president said, “but this way we strike first anyway. Remove their ability to turn it against us. You have the mission specs?”

  “Yes sir. I’ve got the details here,”—he held out his briefing binder, having nearly forgotten he’d been carrying it all this time—“I’m afraid there’s not much we haven’t already thought of, but there are a few alternative options.”

  “Good. Thanks for coming in, colonel.”

  Webster took the binder, stepped back, and allowed Shane to salute. He returned it in crisp enough fashion, if a bit rough around the edges as politicians tended to be.

  “I’m glad to have met you face to face,” Webster said. “I know President Morrison had been planning to do just that.”

  The two men fell silent at the mention of their lost leader. Then Webster nodded at the door, and the meeting was over.

  Navigating the maze of corridors that lead through the west wing workspaces, Shane thought about what the president had told him. The idea of that scientist being their only hope was disconcerting. Not that Shane lacked respect for his abilities. The man had clearly proven himself or he wouldn’t be here. But there was more to it than that. Shane wondered how he’d hold up if the stress continued to mount. It was bad enough when they were dealing with the crisis under the sea, and Dean Eckert hadn’t exactly handled himself with aplomb. Where they were going when the mission came to fruition was an entirely more inhospitable, dangerous, and stressful environment. He hoped his charge would be up to the task.

  16.

  The near-surface moonquake kicked a dust cloud into orbit, providing the most spectacular lunar phenomenon since the meteor impact of 2014. At first of interest only to the scientific community, along with a handful of internet enthusiasts; it quickly became newsworthy as casual observers noticed changes taking place some 385,ooo miles away. First, a mushroom cloud at the two o’clock, jutting out like a dagger, then slowly morphing into something resembling a halo. Particularly striking at sunset, and even more spectacular during the partial eclipse that month. Sunbeams danced up and down the dust cloud, like an artist’s brush come to life in the sky, and it soon became the most photographed event in history.

  Though the intensity of the tremor was nothing extraordinary, the fact that they were taking place over nearly half the lunar surface was noteworthy. With new clouds popping up with increasing frequency, a rudimentary knowledge of lunar landscapes and crater terminology became commonplace. Previously obscure experts were thrust into the spotlight, becoming household names as familiar as Michio Kaku and Neil deGrasse Tyson. Kaku and deGrasse Tyson themselves were busier than ever, presenting this unusual series of events in layman’s terms on a nightly basis.

  China, attempting to cash in on the sudden moon-craze, accelerated plans for a manned mission to Earth’s nearest neighbor. No other nation had immediate plans for a rendezvous, so the science proceeded mostly through robotics and orbital observation. Details on lunar activity were hard to come by, and not given a very high priority, upsetting many in the scientific community. Unbeknownst to the public, many assets had been repurposed to the developing gravimetric crisis, leading to a series of uncomfortable questions the fledgling Webster administration was forced to field. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep things under wraps, so plans were quietly drafted for dealing with the inevitable media firestorm to come.

  For now, people took the moon event as a pleasant diversion. Nothing to be concerned about, something to talk about at the water cooler or share with the kids. A few of the sharper scientists were beginning to form hypotheses, but they were far from hitting the mark, given the fact that they simply didn’t have enough data to go on.

  On a governmental level, an international database was formed to correlate events on the ground with this latest development in space. The question of how to contain a panic was beginning to make the rounds. One particularly sharp leader in the Soviet territories was taking those concerns to the next level, and preparing a military solution which alarmed NATO and her allies.

  When Webster received the first frantic phone communiques, he’d already been in contact with his Joint Chiefs. Working on an immediate response, they were torn between the need to prepare a counterstrike, and concern about how many assets to keep closer to home. The fact that the gravimetrics hadn’t yet made national news might have worked in Webster’s favor politically, but the situation on the ground was deteriorating markedly, and no amount of obfuscation would do when people started to wake up to the disaster. He might need to keep his armies right where they were, in order to control their own population.

  * * *

  The turbulence kicked in an hour prior to landing at Murtala Muhammad International. The Antonov An-32B was a workhorse—a flying tank, really. Noisy though she was, and horrible to ride from a comfort standpoint, she was more than capable of handling some bad air.

  “Nothing to worry about,” the flight attendant assured a little girl when she passed by, collecting stray cups and trash as a handful of passengers began to stir. It wasn’t yet time to prepare the cabin for landing, but they were shorthanded. Besides, she preferred to start early, rather than having to hurry near the end of the shift.

  A harder jolt shook most everyone awake, and the plane banked hard enough for the flight attendant to grab hold of the nearest seatback. Looking back at the frightened girl, she smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion, but this was out of the ordinary, even for her. She squinted and peered out the window, searching for the bad weather. The pilots must have received a warning of something severe, to warrant such a sudden course adjustment.

  They banked for an inordinate amount of time, making it feel as though they were going around in circles. It soon became apparent this was no turn. The aircraft was listing. Engine trouble? the flight attendant wondered. She hadn’t noticed any odd sounds, though. A heavy jolt slammed the plane sideways, rattling bagga
ge and seat-fixtures and teeth, and she decided to strap in. Without waiting for word from the cockpit, she made her way to the jumpseat when she felt a searing, burning pain all down her left side. She doubled over and took in a breath, too shocked to scream, but the passenger to her left did just that.

  Trying to ignore her own agony, she looked at the screaming man, blinking hard as her mind attempted to process the impossible sight. Mouth agape and eyes mad with pain, the man clutched desperately at his arm, which appeared to be floating in bloody air beside the empty shoulder socket. Wrenching her gaze away, she caught sight of the same carnage on her own body, the pain returning at once like a hot knife had sliced right through to the bone. It was at that point she found her voice and let out a cry, but it only lasted a second before the fuselage split. After that, there was no more air for screaming.

  Minutes later the poverty stricken village of Uyota became ravaged by fiery wreckage. Even as their village burned, brave souls sifted through the remains of the fuselage in a vain search for survivors. Two-hundred and seven passengers and crew perished, along with nine more dead on the ground.

  In concert with the Nigerian air disaster, flights over Brazil and the Maldives were similarly stricken, totaling an unprecedented seven crashes in a single day. Throughout the equatorial region, systems vital to day-to-day life in the modern age began to grind to a halt. Communications lines as far north as the arctic circle experienced disruption. Internet connections were severed. Backpackers in remote locations became lost without GPS support, as did scores of watercraft plying the trade routes that encircled the belly of the world. Auto navigation systems and public transit networks were similarly flummoxed. One Hong Kong hospital—renowned for it’s high-tech surgical suites and state-of-the-art medbeds—experienced a mass casualty event when their carefully calibrated machines churned medicine into poison, then pumped it into patients faster than the medical staff could react.

  17.

  The agent had been preparing for two days. Her scientist target, Doctor Dean Eckert, was under heavy guard, kept in secure locations. But there were a couple of weak spots in the routine, and she would take advantage of one of them. Hitting him in transit was likely to produce a successful outcome, so she spent the next forty-eight getting a read on how they moved. After assessing their methods, she would be able to work up likely scenarios and plan a high probability strike.

  She had a number of cameras positioned along likely routes, adjusting position and flagging suspect movements remotely. It was as sophisticated a one-woman operation as could be, although she had support available as necessary. She wouldn’t call on it unless she found herself in danger of failing. Unless and until that happened, working as an individual offered distinct advantages.

  Mobility and flexibility were two of those, and she would need both to facilitate capture. In the span of twenty minutes, she designed three action plans, two straightforward, though the last-ditch option was most likely to succeed. It demanded more collateral damage, but that wasn’t a deterrent. A successful capture trumped all considerations. She would attempt the first two if circumstances warranted, but not at the expense of the objective.

  The first plan involved an interception from the White House. She took up position and settled herself. The odds of them choosing the same route she’d anticipated were somewhat slim, but if she were lucky…

  But the convoy never emerged. They’d selected an alternate. She hastened to the secondary position, on the more predictable route back to his housing site. This time they moved as predicted, and she had a clear signal. At the last second, though, they acquired an unexpected asset. A local cop, adding an element she hadn’t accounted for. They proceeded down the main thoroughfare unmolested. There was no way she could go up against superior numbers in such an open space. She would have to wait for the final option to present itself.

  This scenario left no room for error, but there was less need to worry about specifics. Only one acceptable course was available, as they would consider alternates to be unmanageable due to thick settlements and a lack of maneuverability. That’s where she’d get her hands on him, just before the checkpoint. She set the trap, then pulled out field glasses to watch for the approach.

  The first RPG hit the lead vehicle as planned, lifting it off the road and skidding on to its side. The rest of the convoy went scrambling, as expected, and she readied the second grenade. This shot went slightly wide, and the occupants hit the side of the road and moved out of range before she could prepare a third. They would have to be dispatched one-on-one.

  She destroyed the last vehicle with a clean hit, no possibility of survivors, then slid down from her sniper’s perch. Tossing the launcher aside, she pulled out a semi-automatic for the close-in work, taking out one straightaway as he attempted to crawl to safety. She watched him for a few seconds, making sure there was no further movement.

  She returned her attention to the target’s vehicle. If she could have rolled it, it would’ve been easier to take out the collateral assets and pull him out. Now that they’d moved so far afield, it would be trickier. She was confident she could kill his escorts eventually, but time was against her. Somebody would’ve heard the attack and called it in by now. In this mini-battlefield she had created, the flames and smoke alone were enough to alert the countryside, if not the base itself.

  Pulling out the asset and getting him secured was the main priority. She approached the vehicle, then caught sight of two occupants who’d been thrown clear. A formidable looking female lay next to a rotund male. She stunned the woman and grabbed the man. Whether unconscious or just weak, he was of no help, and it took some effort to drag him to a safe distance.

  When she reached the car, she hoisted the limp form into the back and secured him, then reached for the radio and called in air support.

  “Textbook in hand,” she spoke into the shortwave, sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine, “bringing it in now. Rendezvous ‘Charlie’, three minutes in. Check?”

  The whir of rotor blades blasted out through the hand-mike, making it difficult to catch the reply. It confirmed her ride was on its way. She held it to her ear and strained to hear more. Once she had everything, she radioed back, then took the entire mechanism out from between the seats and tossed it on the ground. No further communication was necessary before the rendezvous, and she didn’t want any usable evidence left in her getaway car.

  * * *

  Dean was sick. Not just from the collision and confusion, either. His ailment was motion sickness, and it was turning severe. He never went anywhere over thirty minutes without his dramamine, and they’d been on the move far longer than that. Though blindfolded and bound, he figured they’d already been on two, possibly three modes of transportation so far, including an airlift.

  None of the rides so far had been remotely smooth, either. Since the abduction, he’d been bounced around, smashed, slammed, and otherwise abused to the point where his whole body ached—but that would pale in comparison to breathing in blown chunks inside his snug black hood. No, he couldn’t allow that to happen. He focused on a happy place, someplace green and peaceful, landlocked, and still. His stomach lurched as he was thrown sideways. As suspected, and his stomach and inner-ear had all but confirmed, they were in the air.

  He felt around behind his back, the smooth metal made him think bulkhead, though without the aid of his eyes he couldn’t really tell. He felt like it was a large space, but again, there was no way to know for sure. He attempted to move around, but he was weak. It was difficult to get his hands out from under. He couldn’t tell if they were still bound, even, but they felt numb, and he was afraid to try standing. Instead, he stretched out his legs and attempted to revive the circulation, reasoning that he could prep himself now and be ready for rescue. That was assuming a lot, but he was a valuable asset. The very fact of his abduction spoke to that. He told himself those facts several times over in an attempt to hold out hope, and not allow the f
rantic panic inside to take hold completely.

  He could hear some cockpit chatter, but over the thwap-thwap of the rotors, it wasn’t clear what they were saying. Nobody had addressed him since this whole thing had started, though he’d called out for help a number of times. He earned a kick to the stomach after a particularly throaty yell, which shut him up good, leaving a lingering, nauseating ache on top of the other bumps and bruises. It was a strong reminder that he was here under duress, and that his abductors were capable of anything. Enemies of the state, or spies even, come to steal his secrets—pry them right out of his pain-stricken skull.